


nothing like a funeral (to make you feel alive)

by savage_starlight



Series: after many miles [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matthew Mason is an idiot and Clayton thinks that's very attractive of him, Mutual Pining, Non-fatal Injury, Spoilers for episode 4, UnDeadwood Mini-series (Critical Role), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21535006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: It's been a long day for both of them, but they'll live.
Relationships: Reverend Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Series: after many miles [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535678
Comments: 12
Kudos: 119





	nothing like a funeral (to make you feel alive)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afearsomecritter (jsaer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsaer/gifts).



> Howdy, y'all!!! Me again, this time with another fic from Matthew's perspective. This one goes out to the amazing eldritchjackalope, aka eld, aka afearsomecritter, whose birthday is coming around soon. I asked for a prompt several weeks ago and somehow managed to completely fail to incorporate literally every aspect they mentioned, but when I approached them about changing prompts they were still patient and amazing. They are a wonderful writer and an amazing person in general, with cool experiences and anecdotes for days, and I'm super glad to know them. If you haven't read their story 'no such fearful thing', you absolutely should, because it is a fucking piece of art and so is literally every one of their deadwood fics.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this one, so I hope y'all enjoy it. Next up is another gift fic, and then I'll be back on schedule with all my other assorted weird projects. Thank you so much again to everybody who keeps reading and commenting on these things, the support legitimately means the world to me. Thanks also to wollfgang, who helped me beta conversations in this, and who is ALSO another amazing writer. Their story 'the heart is a fist' fucking blows me away, and if you haven't read that yet I cannot possibly recommend it enough. 
> 
> Title this time comes from the acoustic version of "Life is Beautiful" by Sixx A.M. The lyrics don't necessarily match the story, but the mood felt close.
> 
> Anyway, onto the story. Happy birthday, Eld, and I hope you enjoy!!

The trouble starts, as usual, with a shoot-out.

The wood right next to Matthew’s head splinters as a bullet rips through it, two inches east of being fatal. On his other side, Clayton cusses a blue streak to make Swearengen blush and Matthew wonders, not for the first time, how it is that he ran away from a war and still finds himself getting shot at on the regular.

“They’re gonna try to flank us,” Clayton says, the words half a growl.

Matthew nods his understanding. “Then I suggest we flank ‘em first.” He listens to the sharp rapport of gunfire around the front side of the Deadwood bank and gestures for Clayton to go right before ducking around to the left.

Out toward the front, a glass bottle shatters with a burst of heat Matthew can feel from fifty feet away. One of the bandits screams and Matthew finds himself more thankful than he usually is for Aly’s good aim. Miriam’s going to miss that whiskey, but it’s gone to good use.

Matthew rounds the corner and comes faces to face with one of the outlaws. He reacts on instinct, unloads three rounds into the bastard’s chest and watches the light leave his eyes before he hits the ground. He doesn’t think about it, just steps forward easy as breathing and aims at another man across the street who’s pinning the ladies down. On the other side of the building, he hears the familiar pop of Clayton’s Colts and takes it as a good sign, squeezes the trigger of his revolver and watches the bandit across the street go down.

It doesn’t take long after that. The people they’re fighting used to have numbers, but they certainly don’t have skill. Between the combined efforts of all involved parties, it’s only another minute or two before the gunfire stops and fades into an echo, and Matthew dares to take a breath.

There’s six bodies in the street but he doesn’t know any of them, and it’s a welcome change. Matthew holsters his revolver and leaves the doorway he’d taken shelter in, meets Miriam in the middle of the street. Her dark eyes are gleaming with a mixture of adrenaline and pride, and she slings an arm over his shoulder to pull him in for a tight hug. “Nice shooting, Matthew,” she whispers, pleased as punch.

Matthew grins. “You did a fair job yourself. You’re quite adept with that rifle these days. You too, Bella,” he says, nodding in her direction as she approaches and Swearengen appears with a glass of whiskey on the balcony of the Gem, surveying the situation like he always does.

Bella's got her pistol tucked away again and looks innocent as the virgin herself, but her smile is sharper than a wolf's. “I’m glad you think so. I’ve been practising in my free time.”

“Explains all the fucked up lanterns I keep findin’ around town,” Clayton drawls, approaching from behind Matthew with Aloysius not far behind. “You could take out all that excess rage you got brewin’ on somethin’ a little less flammable. There’s plenty of whiskey bottles around this place.”

“That’s a mighty fine idea except for the part where I need those bottles myself, unless you want me to stop with all the little fires I keep settin’,” Aly interrupts, raising an eyebrow and leaning on his rifle. “I don’t mind either way. My baby and I are real good together on our own.”

“Barring any further discussions of Mister Fogg’s unique relationship with his weaponry, is everyone alright?” Miriam’s voice has an edge to it that was absent only moments before, and he knows they all notice. She’s come a long way since that day three months ago in the street when she’d sobbed over Clayton’s body, but the road to forgiving Aloysius is a long one and she’s yet to reach the end of it. Everyone confirms their intactness to her with various gestures and jokes, and Matthew notices the way Arabella’s arm snakes around Miriam’s waist just a little too snug to be counted as friendly.

Not that he has any room to judge, or any reason.

“Sounds to me like a situation well-handled,” Aloysius says, clapping his hands together. “How about a drink at the Gem? First round’s on me.”

“I’ll handle the second out of courtesy,” Miriam says, her smile strained at the edges around the old joke. They all drink free most days at the Gem, but somebody always has to play along. The five of them turn toward the saloon, their backs to the bank and the bodies on the ground, already being moved away by a beleaguered Bullock and his deputies. Matthew turns away last. Maybe that’s why he’s the one who sees it – the way the shadows by the doorway shift in anticipation just as a bloody hand grasps at the frame and a man halfway to bleeding out steps into view with his gun raised.

Matthew sees where he’s aiming, and he doesn’t think twice. He slams into Clayton to knock him out of the way on instinct just as the gun goes off and it works, thank Christ, it fucking _works._ The bullet misses him entirely.

It buries itself in Matthew instead.

He makes a sound, though he doesn’t quite mean to, his hand flying to his chest as the blood begins to pour warm and thick through his fingers. He gapes like a landed fish and another gun goes off and oh, there’s arms around him now, Clayton’s arms, and he staggers back into them while his eyebrows furrow together in pain.

He didn’t expect it to be like this.

“Matthew!” Clayton’s hands are tight around his arms, his eyes wide with an unfamiliar fear. “Matt, you fuckin’ idiot, what did you do?”

Matthew blinks, confused. Clayton always feels so warm when they’re close like this. Three months ago, his body had been cold. He’d bled out on this street, quick and messy. It won’t happen again. 

The blood between his fingers is moving sluggishly now, clotted up and clogged in the fabric of his vestments. They'll never clean up right, but he doesn’t think it’ll matter. Matthew meets Clayton’s eyes, gapes uselessly for words that don’t come. The ground beneath his feet gives way to a dark pit. _Don’t let me go,_ Clayton says, and Matthew tries but his hands are too slick with bloodsweatfear and they slip on the ropes, send him falling uselessly downward-

Miriam’s screams follow him into the dark.

* * *

Matthew wakes in a room on the top floor of the Gem with Clayton standing over him and pulling at his shirt. He’s had this dream enough times to know what comes next but there’s something wrong with the way the fabric sticks to his skin, the way Clayton’s face is twisted with panic.

Matthew grabs the gunslinger’s hand from where it’s pulling at the collar of his shirt. “What are you doin’?”

Clayton shakes him off. “Don’t talk, you stubborn fuck, just stay still.” The shirt isn’t going anywhere, and Clayton swears loudly as he draws the knife at his hip. He grabs a fistful of the fabric of Matthew’s vestments and cuts and the sound of ripping fabric echoes in the room before Matthew can even begin to process what’s happening.

He winces as the sticking cloth pulls away from his skin and grabs at Clayton’s hand, another question forming on his lips only to die midway when he sees the look on his face. The knife clatters to the ground and Matthew follows Clayton’s stunned gaze to his own chest and finds, quite suddenly, that breathing is a lot more difficult than it’s supposed to be.

There’s a bullet wound square over his heart. He knows why it’s there, understands why it’s a cause for concern. What he doesn’t understand is why it’s not bleeding anymore.

He blinks, waiting for some logic to occur to him. He’s gone loopy from injuries before, has even done it in front of Clayton on at least one occasion, and for a moment he’s convinced that’s what’s happening now. Then he touches the wound and finds the blood already drying like a thin coat of paint.

The door opens and Miriam rushes in with Bella, bandages and surgical instruments and a bottle of whisky in hand. They see Matthew propped on one elbow and the bottle hits the ground with a sound like a window breaking and somehow, it feels like a metaphor for every moment that is now converging.

Matthew laughs, and laughs, and laughs. Somewhere in his throat it turns into a terrified keen and he tugs the shredded vestments back around him, his guts clenching inside while his fingers clamp white knuckled on his arms, the blood rushing away from the pressure he’s applying except maybe it’s not, maybe he doesn’t even have blood inside him, maybe it’s all just decoration, maybe he’s just fucking insane he’s done it now he’s snapped he’s gone they’re gonna tie him down and lobotomise him pick pieces out of his brain until he can’t find a way to scream them all awake anymore and give them all away-

“Come on, Matty, ease up, I got you.” Clayton’s hands hold on tightly over Matthew’s and then his arms are back around him again and Matthew clings to him, his breaths suddenly more shallow than they were on the street when he still thought he was dying. “I got you, come on.”

“I think our services are best suited elsewhere, Arabella,” Miriam says, grabbing the supplies from her hands to place them on the lone chair in the room. There’s something in her eyes but Matthew doesn’t know it, can’t make sense of the hidden meaning. “We’ll be downstairs with Aloysius if you two gentlemen need anything.”

The door closes again and Matthew knots his fingers in Clayton’s vest, breathing hard, trying to focus on the somewhat awkward soothing motions of Clayton’s hands across his back. The last time they were close like this, he was bleeding from a knife to the leg and for a terrible, warped moment Matthew wishes he was there again, pressed up beside Clayton and lightheaded from the blood that had poured out of his leg like it was fucking supposed to instead of seizing up and staying put. It’s an awful thing to consider but that doesn’t stop him from thinking and wanting it just the same.

“Where you at, Matty?” Clayton’s voice is an anchor in the sudden storm of his mind and Matthew clings to it with all his might. “You here with me?”

“I don’t know.” Matthew is scared to look at Clayton’s face, far from certain what he’ll see there. Out of everyone, he knows that Clayton will understand, but that’s wrong too. Clayton shouldn’t have to understand. Clayton should never have dug his way out of a coffin should never have been in a coffin should never have been underground. He still remembers the way the wood felt beneath his hands, flimsy and cold in comparison to how solid the man inside it had been and maybe he should have jumped in front of the bullet then, too, because apparently it wouldn’t have done him any harm anyway. “What is this?” he chokes out. “Clayton, what the fuck am I?”

“Alive.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“You’re alive enough for me,” Clayton says, tightening his grip. “I ain’t about to judge on accounts of bein’ natural or not.”

Matthew wants to say something, wants to protest, but he can’t make himself do it. Instead he buries his face in the crook of Clayton’s neck and shudders breathlessly, trying hard to grasp at some semblance of control when the very concept feels like a hideous joke. He’s not sure how long he stays there, just knows that Clayton keeps a steady hold on him the whole while and doesn’t say a word. He’s grateful for that, really. Conversation is a skill far beyond him right now, but he lets himself be held until his breathing returns to normal and the world stops spinning at long last.

Cautiously, Matthew pulls away from Clayton, exhaling slow and deep. Clayton’s grip loosens but doesn’t drop entirely, and his slate blue eyes are bright with concern as they fix on Matthew’s face. “You alright?”

Matthew nods, swallowing hard. “Better.”

“Good.” Clayton nods toward the hole in Matthew’s chest without ever looking away. “What are we doin’ about that?”

 _Never thinking about it again,_ Matthew doesn’t say, both because he knows that’s impossible and because it’s not what Clayton’s asking. He can’t go around with a hole in his chest, bleeding or not. “Think Bella brought up some things, left ‘em on the chair.”

“You want me to do the stitchin’, or you want her?”

Matthew doesn’t want to look at anybody but Clayton right now, but he knows he’ll have to face them eventually. “I suppose we all might as well go on this adventure together,” he says hesitantly. Clayton nods, his grip falling away completely, and Matthew feels the loss like a tangible thing. Without thinking he grabs for Clayton’s hand before he can get out of reach. Clayton stops immediately and looks back at him, but Matthew doesn’t meet his eyes. He just swallows and stares at their joined hands. “Don’t go.”

Clayton nods. “Alright. Just a few steps.” He squeezes Matthew’s hand and pulls away just enough to open the door, their fingertips still brushing as he does. He says something to someone Matthew can’t see and then he’s back on the bed beside him, fingers resting against the pulse point of his wrist while Matthew holds his hand tight enough to crush it.

There’s a knock on the door before too much longer. It opens slowly to reveal all three of the others, wide-eyed with concern as they look at Matthew. They make their way in and then stand there, awkwardly silent, none of them daring to address the elephant in the room.

It’s Miriam who finds her voice first. “You feelin’ more composed, Reverend?”

“Much,” he says, mostly honest.

“Then we should get that hole in you resolved. Arabella?”

“Of course.” She starts doing something with the needle and thread as Miriam comes to sit on Matthew’s other side.

Aloysius stays standing at the door, looking between Matthew and Clayton long enough that he starts to grow uncomfortable. It’s Clayton who brings the matter to attention though, his voice careful and measured. “Somethin’ on your mind, Mister Fogg?”

Aly shakes his head. “Just thinkin’ that the pair of you are two of a goddamn kind.”

“And?” Miriam snaps.

“And nothin’. It’s a good thing. Ain’t neither of you belongs in the ground just yet.” He looks at Clayton but doesn’t hold his gaze for long, eyes going to the floor.

After everything, Clayton’s forgiveness toward Aly had been a cautious, quick thing, given far more easily than it had been due. They’ve all talked with him about it on different occasions, but the bad air between them still hangs heavy sometimes, and just now Matthew can’t deal with the weight of it, the way Clayton’s mouth tightens wordlessly around the edges. “Then I suggest we all be thankful to whatever deities we’re inclined to,” he says, “because it seems neither of us are going to be heading anywhere.”

Clayton’s eyes flash toward Matthew with gratitude, and the tension eases somewhat. “Got bigger fish to fry anyway,” Clayton says, nodding again toward the hole in Matthew’s chest. Arabella steps forward with an alcohol soaked rag in one hand and an apologetic expression on her face as she starts to clean the wound with a practised carefulness.

For all her attempts at being gentle, it still hurts like a sonofabitch. Matthew grits his teeth and closes his eyes and thanks God that Clayton’s always with him when these things happen, because it’s just about the only thing keeping him from slipping back into memories that are far worse than his current sense of doubt.

Arabella’s halfway through stitching before she finally breaks the silence when Matthew winces with a particular emphasis. “It’s a bit strange,” she says quietly, the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Cynthia was always better at sewing than I was, but somehow I keep finding myself holding a needle.”

“I imagine your sister used quite a different canvas when she did her work,” Matthew says, careful not to flinch when the needle goes through skin again. “There are some things people frown upon displayin’ on the walls.”

“The concepts transfer better than you might think,” Bella replies, and he feels the pain in her eyes as keenly as his own. She’s come a long way in being able to talk about it, but loss is always a terrible thing.

Miriam touches Matthew’s arm, drawing his attention away as Arabella begins to sew. “You make it awful hard to keep that good heart of yours beating, sometimes,” she says, her voice strained the same terrible way it had been three months ago. “That was a very foolish thing you did.”

“Not nearly as foolish as it could have been. Seems my heart hasn’t been beating for some time.” It’s meant to come out as a joke but it falls far too flat in the silence and Miriam just holds his hand tighter with a look on her face like her own heart’s breaking.

Aloysius clears his throat quietly. “I ain’t lookin’ to start anything, and if there’s a God He knows I don’t deserve an answer to this but….about that heartbeat thing. You got any ideas, Reverend?”

Matthew shakes his head. “When I left the cavalry, things had been…close, for a time. I made it out, by what grace I don’t know, but I managed.”

“Well, I imagine being bulletproof must have helped in that endeavor,” Bella murmurs. She breaks the thread on his stitches and gestures for Matthew to finish removing his shirt. “Do you remember when that started?”

“No,” Matthew admits with another frown. “As far as I can recall, I’ve always endured injuries the same way as everyone else. I can’t even begin to think when that would have changed.” He turns on the bed to face his back toward Bella so she can address the exit wound, struggling with the distinct memory of when he had nicked himself shaving and bled for twenty minutes, of having taken his shoulder out of commission for three days climbing trees as a child.

He’s so lost in thought that it escapes him for a minute, the way the silence spreads sudden and cold in the room once he isn’t facing the others. As soon as Matthew picks up on it, he stiffens with a sudden nervousness and looks over his shoulder to see what the hold-up is.

Instead, he sees four different variations of shock staring back at him – Arabella’s jaw dropped, Aloysius’s eyes so wide with shock that Matthew half-expects them to pop out of his head, Miriam’s hands trembling just barely in her lap. Clayton’s expression is neutral as ever, but there’s something shuttered about it now, like he’s making a special effort to keep his face clean of any giveaways.

A deep, cold wariness creeps into Matthew’s chest and settles like a rock in his stomach. “What is it?”

Of all people, it’s Aloysius who finds a way to speak first. “Nothin’ major, Reverend. Think we’re all just tryin’ to wrap our heads around you bein' shot in the back before.”

“What?” Matthew’s hand flies up to his back on instinct, blindly groping for proof. The contortion is strange and pulls at his stitches and Arabella has just started to protest about the risks of tearing them out entirely when he finds it, his fingertips sliding through the fresher blood on his back to find a long-healed scar over his heart, big and round as a quarter.

His traces it once, twice, a third time. He thinks of his last ride with the cavalry, how they had sabotaged the munitions of a nearby camp and the fuse had been wrong and he’d woken up as the only survivor in a fort full of corpses. He’d taken his life and he’d ran as fast as he’d been able to manage, not caring what it looked like, what any of them would have to say if they went back through the bodies and found his wasn’t there.

He’d thought he’d made it. He really had.

Miriam’s hand lands on his shoulder and squeezes, and it’s only then that he realises he’s started laughing again, soft with disbelief. “Reverend?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

Matthew blinks at her and stupidly tries for a bravado that falls entirely flat. “I suppose this explains the fog, then. Guess I wasn't so lucky after all.”

“Oh, Matthew,” she says, and her face crumples like a wet piece of paper and then she’s hugging him the way his mother used to, tight and sturdy as an iron clamp, her face buried in his shoulder. He returns the gesture on instinct, far past the point of registering if he’s getting more blood on her dress because it hardly seems important.

There’s a lot of things that don’t seem important right now. Matthew breathes slow and steady and pulls away long before he really wants to, tugging the shredded fabric of his shirt back over his shoulders. Arabella protests on the grounds of still needing to bandage him but he shakes his head and she lets it go, her lips tight with concern. There’s not much to say after that and none of them bother trying, just filter out one by one again until it’s only Clayton and Matthew in the room again.

Matthew can feel Clayton’s eyes on him like a physical weight, but he doesn’t meet them. He just studies the blood under his fingernails, on the floor and both their hands. There’s supposed to be more of it for a wound like his, but there isn’t and there won’t be and he knows that, feels sick thinking about it.

“’f you want, we can take this back to the church,” Clayton murmurs after a long while. “Oughta get that wrapped up still, even considerin’- well. All of it.”

Matthew laughs and doesn’t look up. “Don’t think I belong there, in light of recent revelations.” Clayton opens his mouth in an admonishment but Matthew cuts him off before he can really start. “I wonder if that’s why Cynthia came back? Makes sense that somethin’ soulless couldn’t send anyone else’s soul on.”

“And who says you ain’t got a soul?” Clayton shoots back, the words an obvious challenge.

“How could I possibly know? Whatever it is that brought me back, it – maybe it was God, but we don’t know that. You said it yourself. God don’t play cards.”

Clayton leans forward onto his elbows. “You remember playin’ poker at the pearly gates, Matt?”

He shakes his head.

“Didn’t think so. You remember fuckin’ around some wasteland where you couldn’t see shit and all you heard were voices around and a bunch of hands?” A pause, another shake of Matthew’s head. “Well, that’s good then, because I do.”

“Clayton-”

“No. Look at me.” He hesitates and Clayton reaches out, guides his chin up with one hand. It’s not a rough gesture, but it’s far from gentle, and when Matthew meets the other man’s eyes he finds them burning. “I’m not sayin’ that to get sympathy, I’m sayin’ it to make a point. If I got through that and came back and I ain’t damned, you don’t get to say you are.”

“But-”

“No buts. Not on this. I ain’t inclined to arguin’ much, Matthew Mason, and sure as hell not with you. But I’ll say this as many times as it needs sayin’. You’re not soulless. Anyone in this fuckin’ town has a soul, it’s you.”

Matthew’s always been stubborn as sin, and he knows it. There’s an argument on his tongue immediately, but it fades away like it’s been burned in the wake of Clayton’s gaze, his certainty. Matthew doesn’t think he’s ever heard him say so much at one time, and he doesn’t know how to react to being the subject of it now, doesn’t know how to react to any of this. “We have no idea what’s kept me here. How can you be so certain it’s good?”

Clayton’s eyes soften like chips of ice in a child’s hands. “’Cause I know you, and I wouldn’t if it weren’t for whatever luck’s kept you on your feet. I ain’t gonna be angry about that. I don’t care what it is.”

Matthew can’t help it. He stares at Clayton, even though he knows he shouldn’t, that Clayton hates it, that it’s a foolish thing to do for so many reasons that he can barely begin to list them all. He stares and he finds himself drifting again, only this time rather than drifting away he feels himself pulled in closer to Clayton and farther to sea, off his feet and into the uncertain depths of things he hasn’t felt for years and is half-afraid of still.

He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s done to deserve this or how he’s even here when he’s supposed to be underground, but Clayton’s right about one thing. They’d never have met if things weren’t what they are. Whatever God or other force is responsible for that, it’s holy enough to hold to.

Matthew lets out a breath he hasn’t noticed himself holding and nods once, twice. He trusts Clayton’s judgment. He trusts him. “Alright,” he says, “You wanna take this back to mine? Think we could both use a drink while we clean up.”

Clayton nods, stands up, and hands Matthew his coat before he can even ask. “I’ll follow you,” he says, and holds open the door.

* * *

The evening finds them in Matthew’s room above the church, still together and not particularly bothered by the alcohol they’ve been having. They’ve been trading a flask between the two of them for a few hours now, taking periodic sips from it and talking in between or else sitting in a strangely companionable silence. Clayton doesn’t stray too far from arm’s reach and whether that’s intentional or not, Matthew can only be grateful for it.

It’s late, and he’s turned the lamps down. The only light in the room comes from streaks of early moonlight and the slowly dying fire through the slats of Matthew’s stove, and Clayton is next to him on the bed, close enough to touch if he was feeling brave. He isn’t though, which is why Matthew takes another drink instead and sits the flask between them again, leaning it up against Clayton’s leg. He’s been staring at the fire for some time now, and if the silence weren’t so companionable Matthew thinks he’d be concerned.

He should go to sleep sooner rather than later, he thinks. Miriam will be wanting to see him tomorrow, and probably Swearengen unless he’s missed his guess. He likes to be in the know about everything, whether it’s his business or not. Matthew’s in the midst of weighing the merits of not telling him anything when Clayton speaks beside him, a low murmur that breaks the silence. “Got a question for you. Dumb one.”

Mathew blinks, perplexed, then shifts. “I suppose that will excuse if my answer is equally foolish. What’s on your mind?”

“Today,” Clayton says, then stops himself without warning. “Earlier, after all the fuss this afternoon.”

He goes quiet for a moment, and Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” he prods.

“Forget it.”

“What is it, Clayton? What’s goin’ on?”

“This afternoon, when you knocked me outta the way. You really didn’t know?” Clayton bites out the question like it physically pains him and doesn’t look at Matthew.

He frowns, not entirely convinced Clayton wants an answer, much less an honest one. “No,” he says anyway. “I didn’t.”

“Then why?”

 _Because I wasn’t about to watch it happen again,_ Matthew doesn’t say. His hand drifts absently to his now bandaged chest and he shrugs. “You’ve been through enough on that street, is all. Didn’t seem fair to let you go through it again.”

Clayton closes his eyes and breathes out slowly through his nose, like he’s contemplating something difficult long and hard. Matthew knows what he’s thinking without him saying it, because it’s been going through his mind too, a non-stop loop of thinking about how much worse it could have been, how much worse it almost was. “It was mighty foolish of you, Matty. Brave, but stupid.”

“I know,” Matthew says, swallowing back a very different kind of pain at the sound of the old name. “I would apologise, but I’m afraid it didn’t really occur to me to think it through at the time. It was instinct more than anything.”

Clayton snorts softly. “Instinct, huh? You and your protective streak. Gotta be wider than the fuckin’ town at this rate.”

 _Only because I’ve got so much that’s worth protecting,_ Matthew thinks. He watches Clayton watch the fire from the corner of his eye and thinks, for a long moment, about what might happen if he said what was on his mind for once. This thing between them, whatever it is, will have to be addressed one day. It feels bigger with every passing week and he knows he can’t be the only one who sees it, not when Clayton is so much more clever and observant than he ever will be.

But whatever they have to discuss one day, they won’t do it tonight. Neither of them have that sort of energy, and even if they did, well. They’ve both covered themselves in too much of each other’s blood for the day to be saying anything too heartfelt. Instead of talking, Matthew stands, stretching carefully. “Think it’s time I head off to sleep. You going back to the Bullock for the night?”

Clayton nods. “Probably should.”

“You don’t have to.” The words are out of Matthew’s mouth before he can think to stop them, and even though he thinks he’s lost enough blood today that blushing should be a moot point, his cheeks warm traitorously. He gestures vaguely toward the bed and the room at large. “There’s room enough for two. If you want.”

There’s a long, strange moment where Clayton just stares at him and the silence feels somewhere close to endless. Then he nods. “Might as well. Heard we’re expectin’ a storm. This is probably 'bout to be the only warm place in the whole fuckin' town.”

Matthew’s heard no such rumours, but he doesn’t protest. Instead, he waits for Clayton to move and pulls the covers down, curling up on his side on one half of the bed. He’s stretching the truth a little about how much room there is but at this point they’ve shared smaller spaces. Clayton joins him a moment later, doesn’t even make an argument about taking the chair this time. It says a lot about how bad the day has been, really.

They lay there in silence, the room too dark to even see each other’s eyes. It’s almost a surprise when after several minutes, Matthew feels a hand against his chest, a little cool and somewhat shaky. There are matching bullet holes in them now, and it’s a strange thing how comforting it is to not be alone in this. Matthew covers Clayton’s hand with one of his own, places the other against where he knows Clayton's own scar is. “Glad you’re alive,” he murmurs.

Beside him, he feels Clayton shudder so faintly it’s barely noticeable. Beneath his palm, the heartbeat is steady and strange, colder than life but so much warmer than the grave will ever be. “Me too,” Clayton says.

Whatever any of this means, Matthew has no idea. He supposes they’ll figure it out together now. It’s as scary a thought as he’s ever had, but the company makes it easier, and when he closes his eyes the shadows behind them don’t chase him to sleep for once. He hopes that when Clayton finally drifts off, he’ll feel the same.

It’s been a long day for both of them, but they’ll live.


End file.
